Rejected Omega Was Told to Sing the Luna Hymn as a Joke - But Her Voice Left the Alpha King Speechless Spotlight8

Scientific Observation

He stared at me like I’d grown a second head.

“You’re approaching this like a research project?”

“You’re approaching it like a tragedy. At least one of us should try something different.”

He laughed, that genuine sound again.

“Fair point.”

Then the sun dipped below the horizon, and the transformation began. I watched more carefully this time, noting the sequence: spine first, then limbs, then skull.

The king’s scream still made my stomach clench, but I forced myself to observe rather than react. When the beast emerged, it immediately sought me out with those burning gray eyes.

“Songbird returns,”

it rumbled.

“Brave or foolish?”

“Both,”

I replied, opening my journal.

“Do you remember last night?”

The beast cocked its head.

“I remember a riddle. An impossible question. A girl who didn’t run.”

“Good. Memory transfers between forms—that’s important.”

I made a note. The beast prowled closer to the bars, fascinated.

“You’re writing about me?”

“About the curse. About you and the king. About what makes you different from him.”

The Truth of the Beast

“We’re not different,”

it growled.

“We’re the same soul, split in two. He’s the part that thinks and rules; I’m the part that feels and hungers.”

I looked up sharply.

“You feel everything?”

The beast’s voice dropped lower.

“His loneliness. His shame. His desperate hope that you might be different. I feel all of it. But I can’t control it—can’t shape it into words the way he does. It just burns.”

This was new and important.

“The king thinks you’re the monstrous part,”

I said carefully.

“The rage and violence he has to contain.”

“That’s what he tells himself.”

The beast sank into a crouch.

“But he’s wrong. I’m not his rage. I’m his truth. Everything he won’t let himself feel during the day comes out in me at night.”

“Then what does he feel about me?”

The beast’s eyes glowed brighter.

“Dangerous question, little songbird.”

“I’m asking anyway.”

It studied me for a long moment.

“Hope. Terror. Fascination. Guilt.”

It tilted its head.

“And something else… something that scares him more than I do.”

“What?”

“Ask him yourself.”

A Riddle for Survival

The beast turned away.

“Now, give me my riddle.”

I’d prepared for this.

“I am always coming but never arrive. I can be measured but never held. Kings fear me and children ignore me. What am I?”

The beast began pacing, muttering to itself. I watched it think, watched the intelligence burning behind the feral exterior.

After an hour, it still hadn’t guessed, but it wasn’t frustrated this time. It was engaged, alive in a way that seemed almost joyful.

“You’re clever,”

it said eventually.

“Using riddles to keep my mind occupied—to stop me from obsessing over how fragile you are. Is it working?”

“Perfectly.”

The beast settled onto the floor, still watching me.

“Tell me something, songbird. Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t afraid.”

“But you are less afraid than yesterday. Why?”

I considered the question carefully.

“Because you haven’t hurt me. Because you’re choosing to think instead of rage. Because…”

I paused.

“Because I’ve spent my whole life being seen as a monster, too. Just a different kind.”

Perfect Exactly as You Are

The beast went very still.

“They called you a monster?”

“Not in those words, but yes. Defective. Broken. Wrong.”

I met its burning gaze.

“At least you have an excuse. You’re cursed. I was just born this way.”

“You’re not broken,”

the beast said, and its voice held something fierce, protective.

“You’re perfect, exactly as you are.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. No one had ever said that to me; no one had even implied it.

“The king thinks that, too,”

the beast continued.

“He’s terrified to admit it because every woman he’s hoped for has broken or fled. But when you sang that night, when you made the Luna Hymn sound like grief instead of triumph, he saw himself in you. Someone beautiful and alone and convinced they’ll never be enough.”

My throat tightened.

“Stop.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s true. Because you feel it, too. Because this isn’t part of our agreement,”

I managed.

“You’re supposed to be a monster I endure—not… not someone who understands me.”

The beast moved closer to the bars.

“Too late, songbird. I already do.”

The Story of the Curse

We stared at each other across the cage. The moment stretched, charged with something I couldn’t name.

Then I opened my journal and changed the subject.

“Tell me about the curse. How it was cast? What you remember?”

The beast was quiet for so long I thought it wouldn’t answer. Finally:

“It was a witch. A powerful one.”

The king, it paused, working through the memory.

“He’d executed her daughter. The girl had used forbidden magic, killed three people. The law was clear. But the witch didn’t care about law or justice; she cared about revenge. So she cursed him.”

“She cursed him to be what he feared most: a monster split from his humanity, alone in his own skin.”

The beast’s voice was bitter.

“She said he’d remain this way until he found someone who could love both halves—someone who could see the beast and the king and want them both.”

“That’s not impossible,”

I said.

“Just difficult.”

“It’s impossible because anyone who sees me runs, or breaks, or—”

The beast cut off, shaking its head.

“Five years. Five years of trying. You’re the first person to survive more than three nights.”